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"They don't live very long after what we are doing to him - not more than a year or two. They can't cough and their lungs fill up with phlegm. It's a sort of slow drowning."

The leader's London voice was blandly reassuring.

"No problem. The job's done by then. We'd better get on with it and get out of here before he comes to."

Rotkoff felt he was descending into the pit of Hell. These three calm, dispassionate voices were frightening in a way no hate-filled cries or oaths would have been. They were discussing killing him as if he were a complete nullity.

Why didn't he know who they were? He had been the biggest beast in the jungle of Birmingham for some time. He had fought off all the challengers and imposed his control by bribery, violence and fear. How could they be doing this to him? What were they doing?"

Someone took his head and turned it. A cold, wet pad was pressed against the nape of his neck. He could feel a small trickle of liquid run down the side of his neck and a cold, numbing sensation came over the area. A local anaesthetic!

"Just be a minute or two now." It was 'the doctor' muttering to himself.

Powerless to resist, or even to protest, Rotkoff felt his inert tongue too big for his mouth. Cold, wrenching fear coursed through his body like an icy tide.

He felt a hard inexorable pressure against the back of his neck. Although he could not move his limbs, he could feel the hot trickle of urine spill helplessly down his legs and cool under him.

"That's it now. It will take eight or ten hours for the fibres of his spinal cord to swell, and then he will be permanently paralysed. Hope his wife will take on the job of wiping his arse for him, because he'll not be doing it for himself."

'The doctor' again. A trace of professional satisfaction in his voice. How, Rotkoff wondered, can a doctor do things like this? Aren't they bound by some sort of oath not to injure people? From the recesses of his mind the phrase 'to do the sick no harm' popped up, but he couldn't place it.

The door closed quietly and he knew he was alone. All he could hear now were the ambient sounds. Little creaks and groans - the sounds of the house moving, he assumed.

Funny how he had never noticed them before. Far in the distance he could hear the distant buzz of a car. Again he felt a warm liquid trickle down his leg, hot at first then growing slowly colder and clammier against his flesh.

As Rotkoff lay unmoving, he could hear the repetitive thump-thump of his heart beating. Faintly he could hear the swishing of the blood being forced through the tracery of tiny veins and capillaries that networked his body.

It seemed that he could feel the accretion of tiny dust particles drifting down onto the surfaces of his eyes, unable even to blink them away.

By degrees he became aware that, behind his head - out of sight - the people he had killed - the three children he had burned in their beds in a house-fire, the bent bookkeeper whose fingers he had cut off with a bolt-cutter, the two men he had slashed and jabbed to death with knives in a hotel room - were standing waiting silently; patiently.

He lay, externally, as inert as a log in a swamp. Inside he was beginning to scream; for his mother...his wife...for anyone who could take it all away.


At four o'clock in the morning, a frantic telephone call came to the front desk at Birmingham Central Police Station, where a Detective Superintendent had changed shifts just so that he could be there to receive such a call.

"Is that the Police?" The light, cultured voice, of what sounded like a youngish woman. An edge of fear in her voice.

"My husband has been kidnapped. His bed has not been slept in; the chauffeur and the handyman are downstairs. They seem to be drugged. My husband's bed is empty, and the front door is wide open."

"Can you give us your name and address please? A patrol car will be with you in five minutes."

"Sonja Rotkoff.

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